


Of Sugar and Sullustans

by mnemosyne



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: In which Rey meets an awkward smuggler. Effectively set during the last five minutes of the movie.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weakinteraction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakinteraction/gifts).



Rey feels the woman approach half a breath before she hears her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Unhurried, she opens her eyes, looks over to the other end of the garage. There’s not usually anyone around at this hour; the sound here carries too well over to the nearby barracks. It’s why Rey comes here to think. The grounds outside the base would be more private, but the forests smell all wrong, too alive, too busy to clear her mind. Metal, oil, scorched wire and plasteel, those are the scents she can relax too.

The woman doesn’t seem to have noticed her, is walking around the room at a steady, unhurried pace. Attention piqued, Rey watches her. She’s too poised to be wandering aimlessly, but there’s no hint to her purpose in her posture, one hand raised, not touching any of the benches she passes. It doesn’t even cross Rey’s curiosity to call out.

Brass-coloured goggles obscure the woman’s face, but Rey recognises her anyway. Lyra? Irra? Iria. One of the blockade runners the Resistance uses. Not a smuggler, they never call them smugglers, but Rey’s seen their type her whole life; shrewd businesspeople, quick of thought and of hand. There’s little doubt as to why the Resistance finds them so useful and a small part of her bristles at the effort to smear unnecessary respectability over clever talent. There’s dishonesty in that, she thinks.

Iria pauses in her tour at a bench almost directly opposite from where Rey is seated, but there's no sign that the other woman has even noticed her. She stoops to pick up something, plays it over in her hands; her fingers are long, deft as they run over the surface of the object. _She’s looking for something_ , Rey thinks, tilting her head. As quietly as she can, she leans forward, trying to see what it is the woman is holding.

The fingers stop. Rey holds her breath, folds in on herself like she learned to back on Jakku, trying to fade into the background. It doesn’t help. The woman snaps around on her heel. Rey cannot see her eyes behind her goggles, but she still gets the distinct impression that she is being looked over, filtered and categorised and valued. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

“You must be Rey,” she says, warmly, and whatever judgment she has been making has clearly been decided in Rey’s favour. Her voice is deep, soft and amused and she clearly relaxes, holding out a hand in greeting. “I’m Iria. I didn’t notice you there.”

Rey’s cheeks itch a little. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she says, and wishes it didn’t quite sound like a question. She uncrosses her legs, lets them dangle over the side of the crate she’s perched on. “Nobody comes here in the morning,” she says. “What are you doing?”

Iria shrugs. “Poking my nose in where it isn’t needed,” she says, smiling with broad honesty. Rey stares. The smile drops a little.

“I wasn’t harming anything. Just wanted to have a little look at this.” She shakes the object in her hand. It’s nothing more than a metal strut, bent, blackened, twisted. Salvage from a nasty crash a few weeks back; the pilot had ejected before the craft had quite gone down, and was still now recovering in the medical wards. What little could be scavenged from the site had been, and in the effort to retain anything useful, far more than could be fixed.

“What do you want with that?”

Iria bites her lip, the flesh whitening where she presses down with her teeth. She holds out the object towards Rey, runs a nail along a flaw in the metal, almost imperceptible. Rey follows the movement of her fingers, and jumps when a small, black flat surface pops out. Deftly, Iria flips the centre, and a small datachip drops into her hand.

“She wanted this,” she says. “I don’t know what’s on it, but she wanted it.”

There’s no sense of deception coming from her, though Rey studies her intently. Iria’s mouth quirks, like she knows the scrutiny she’s being put under, but nothing in her posture suggests that she minds. “I thought I would see if I could find it for her,” she says.

“If it’s secret, it’s probably dangerous,” Rey tells her. Iria laughs.

“It didn’t seem like that to me.”

“You should take it to Leia,” Rey adds, firmly. She hops down from the crate, but doesn’t make any move to take the chip away. She wants to see what the other woman will do, wants to see if she’ll run. She hopes that she doesn’t.

“Loyalty is always best earned, isn’t it?” Iria says, lightly, tilting her head. She sighs, but doesn’t appear bothered by Rey’s determined tone. “All right, I’m game. Let’s go see the general.” She pauses. “ _Leia._ ”

As it turns out, the datachip is nothing more than a collection of family holos. Sadness spikes in the air as the three women watch and listen to a group of Sullustans, sharing drinks and laughter in the sunshine. They are long since dead, Rey knows, and when she glances at Iria, the tension in her jaw tells her that she knows it too. She wants to tell her that she’s sorry, to explain that she had to be sure. The urge to squeeze the other woman’s hand flits over her, there and gone as quickly as the flap of wings. Leia reaches out, flicks the images off, and Rey does not miss the slight drop in her shoulders.

“It was a good intention,” she tells Rey, though her hand rests on Iria’s forearm. “I’m glad it wasn’t founded in this case.” She looks over at Iria, curiosity written unhidden on her features. “I didn’t know you and Piran were close, Captain Tase.”

“I don’t think she expected anyone to _look_ at it,” Iria says. She holds out her hand. “It will be nice to return this to her.”

Leia glances at Rey, then back to Iria, a small frown hovering on the edge of her features. She nods. “Go.”

 

***

 

It is the a couple of days before she leaves that Rey sees Iria again. The woman is leaning, hands thrust nonchalant in the pockets of her flight suit, against the entry to the _Millenium Falcon,_ sunlight glinting almost-blue over the hair that’s now hanging loose around her shoulders. Rey nods in greeting, arms full of supplies she is supposed to be packing away.

“This is a very nice ship,” Iria says. Something sparks in a panel behind her and she jumps. “So the rumours say, anyway.”

“She's been through a lot,” Rey replies. Iria nods, thoughtfully.

“I’d always take the ship with a story over steering myself too,” she says. “It’s all a lot more fun that way.” She grins at Rey, her lips stretched wide and red over her teeth. “This girl has a lot of stories.”

“Are you talking about you, or the _Millenium Falcon_?” Rey butts her should up against the control panel, pressing buttons with the tip of her nose. Both women scoot back as the ramp begins to descend.

“The _Falcon_ , of course,” Iria tells her, as she follows Rey up the ramp. “I have my share, but I would bet our lady here would laugh at how tame they all are.”

Her voice is light, a practised ease of laughter through the vowels; it is not a tone to be trusted, Rey knows, but she doesn’t press further. A lot of people have a lot of reasons to stay quiet; of all the changes in her life lately, the open chatter of the base has been one of the biggest. She can respect guard, and when Iria asks her about her own stories, she simply shrugs and smiles, like she has no idea whatever the woman could be talking about.

“I,” says Iria, when Rey drops the crates she is carrying on the ground and begins to dig through them. “Am not being sent off on a secret mission to go find a missing Jedi.”

“It’s hardly secret if you know all about it,” Rey points out. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Many things,” Iria says. “But mostly to see if you needed a hand.” She shrugs. “I’m waiting on a shipment and I bore easily.”

Rey tosses her a box of medical supplies and considers for a moment. She’s seen the freedom the woman has been granted, the implicit trust that even being here brings. Stay wary, she doesn’t need to tell herself, but there’s no denying a second pair of hands might be useful. And with Finn still in the medbay and Chewbacca out of action, it isn’t as if there are a lot of better options. “I’m not sure how helping me do inventory is going to be any more interesting than staring at a wall,” she says, kindly. “But knock yourself out.”

“You’re the most interesting person around here,” Iria says.

A few hours later and Rey cannot help but feel grateful for the assistance. She can’t blame Chewbacca for needing this time, for taking himself away from the ship, from anything and anyone who isn’t Leia, but there are things to do, to mend, to patch, and it doesn’t seem right to let anyone else touch it. She lets Iria busy herself with the supplies, and finds herself able to turn as much attention as she can to the repairs.

It’s more enjoyable than Rey thinks it should be; the work lets her quiet the thoughts that have been spilling over and around her mind now for days on end. The worry lines that crease her forehead do not smooth, but for just a little while at least, she can feel herself relax. This is what she knows.

Down below, she can hear the faint strains of a voice, singing quietly, and Rey stoops her ear to the vent to hear better, stilling her fingers on the wiring she is working on. It’s a familiar tune, though she can’t quite remember where she has ever heard it before, and jaunty. She does not recognise the language. Rey leans to call down, but stops herself – the other woman surely can’t expect to be overheard. The song is a pretty one, a comforting one; it makes Rey think of sunshine, of warm bread and the dip of acceleration during a flight.

Without quite realising, she is smiling she gets back to work.

There are more things, it seems to Rey, to pack for her journey than she has owned in her life. People come by with boxes of food, of tools, even a few more blasters than she thinks she probably will need – pointing out that there will be exactly four hands between her and Chewbacca seems to fall on deaf ears. Even Poe swings by with a unmarked packet of something that he shoves into her hands and tells her to only open when they’re already on their way, and not in front of the wookiee, you hear me, Rey?

“So, you definitely need to open that now,” Iria tells her, poking her head into the corridor as soon as Poe disappears through the doorway. Rey rolls her eyes and tucks the packet under one arm.

“He said not to.”

“Oh, I heard.” Iria replies. “That’s why you’ve got to.” She pats Rey’s arm with the edge of a rusty-looking hydrospanner, unearthed from who knows where. “You can’t leave me like this.”

“No,” says Rey, then, “stop pouting.”

“Not until you open it,” Iria says. Her brows are drawn together in an exaggerated furrow over the dark leather edging of her goggles; it makes her look ridiculous, Rey thinks, and tells her so.

“That is exactly the look I go for most days,” Iria says. “It’s not quite as attractive as mysterious desert warrior mechanic, but we all work with what we’ve got.”

Rey blinks at her.

“Did you know I am really bad at flirting,” Iria adds, brightly. “Now, where did you want the spare clothing?”

“That’s it?” asks Rey. The other woman shuffles her shoulders in what could almost be called a shrug, but is not quite anywhere near casual enough.

“I once broke a girl’s toes trying to ask her out,” Iria adds. Rey can feel herself beginning to grin.

“I’m very light on my feet,” she says. Her nose wrinkles, and she glances out the door. "You know what? Fine. If Poe asks..."

"I know nothing."

"I was going to say, I'll blame you," Rey tells her, and throws the packet from one hand to another, "but this works too."

 

***

 

There is a crowd to see Rey off, and she’s not sure how comfortable she is with that. The story of her mission is well known across the base now; how could it have been anything else? People have been looking at her with naked curiosity in their eyes for days now, and the amount of attention has been an itch between her shoulder blades. She has not been so _noticed_ as long as she can remember. Maybe it’s a silver lining, she thinks, that they all know the stakes of what she is doing; she is not expected to smile and wave and bid farewell to the people who are still little more than strangers to her. Her sharp eyes scan the crowd, picking out the familiar and the unfamiliar; and it’s a surprise to realise the pang of hurt when Iria isn’t among them.

Chewbacca pats her shoulder when she settles into the pilot seat, flicking buttons and switches for the flight checks. It’s reassuringly heavy, the weight of his palm a counterbalance over the weight of what they are about to do. She can’t think about it, can’t let her mind focus on anything but the flight, not until they’re underway. _It’s a long way to Jakku_ , she thinks. _Even from here._

The ship lifts off. Rey feels the engines humming low through her body. Beside her, Chewbacca murmurs his approval at the confident assurance of her movements.

 _At least the Falcon’s in good hands_ , he says. _He would be proud._

Tears prick at the back of Rey’s eyes. “I know,” she replies. “Isn’t that weird?”

It will be some hours before they’re beyond the system, out into a vast stretch of space, a vast array of absolutely nothing surrounding them. Rey’s back is beginning to ache, her eyes swimming with the readouts from the hyperdrive. She stretches in her seat, lets her head roll back against the rest. There’s not much to do for now. The drive has been programmed, there are no planets in the vicinity for the First Order to be hiding out at, nor any checks that could interrupt their progress. She stands, prods Chewbacca with her foot. The wookiee starts from his light doze.

“I’m going for a wander,” she tells him. “Your turn.” She doesn’t wait for him to murmur his assent before she leaves, meandering through the corridors till she reaches the bunk she’s claimed as her own. It’s not Hans’ bunk, she made sure of that; though any trace of the man was long since removed during the ship’s years in the junkyard, somehow it still felt wrong to lie in the shadow of where he had slept. His presence in the craft is palpable; if she's quiet for long enough, she thinks, maybe she could still hear the echo of Han Solo’s tread on the floor.

She drops herself down on her own bed, curling tight into the corner. There is a familiarity in the smallness of the room, in the bare metal walls. Leia had suggested, had tried to insist on, small comforting luxuries to drape, to soften the edges, but Rey had turned her down. For all its faults, that old war heap in the desert had been her home for longer than she could remember; it was hard to sleep with _soft_. The only concession she had made was for the pillows that scattered the bed; she drags one close to her body, nestling herself around it like a cat. When she tucks her other arm underneath another to pull it close to her head, it catches on something hard.

“Ow,” Rey says out loud.

Propping herself up on one elbow, she reached beneath the coverlet till her fingers closed around a small box, covered in bright, hand-daubed swirls of colour. There’s something lovely in its unneveness; it’s barely marred at all by the blue thumbprint in one corner, nor the heavy maintenance tape that’s stuck to one side. Rey unhooks it with her thumbnail, and isn’t too surprised when a datachip falls out; she presses it into the datapad beside her bed as she opens the box. A thick, cloying scent of sugar, spice, cream, milk fills the air, and she’s greeted with the sight of broken slabs of something light, crumbling, paper-wrapped; sweets that she has never been able to afford before.

She is already smiling when Iria’s image pops up on screen.

 _I’m sorry I had to go,_ says tiny Iria, twisting her hair in one hand. _Something came in for me – hopefully those sweets are a good apology for not seeing you off. Come back and I’ll take you out for a proper apology dinner._ There’s an undercurrent of worry that cuts through promise, and the woman’s expression grows stern, hard; Rey's fairly sure she isn’t supposed to see it. _Rey, I wish I could have gone with you._ _There’s a lot of danger out there. I know you know that. Tell Luke Skywalker to be good to you, because I will be unkind if he isn’t. Tell him that you’re what he’s been waiting to arrive all these years, because you are exactly that. Tell him I said hello, just because I’ve not seen a Jedi in a very long time._ She smiles again, small and honest and somehow, undeniably sad. Her fingers press against her lips, then are held up to the camera. _Stay safe, Rey. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Come home soon._

The image blinks out, then back in before Rey can move.

_Also, if you eat this all at once, you will be sick, and I don’t want you associating that with me. Don’t say I didn’t warn you._

Turning the screen off, Rey pops a sweet into her mouth, lets it melt slowly as the _Falcon_ thrums beneath her. Closing her eyes, she starts to drift.

The last thing she thinks, before sleep enfolds her, is that she can’t remember how many days it has been since she left Jakku.


End file.
